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Never name a handsoap "Liquid Nature".
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Seriously Drudge, a little more explanation would be nice.
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You aint got traffic like LA's got traffic...

My Body is So Weird...

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My body is so weird.

I feel like it's a rental that I was stuck with, forever.

I had surgery on my bum left ear a month and a half ago, and while simultaneously not fixing the screeching hiss I hear whenever sounds are loud, I now hear the constant gentle roll of a distant kettle drum to go behind it. (Not the loud BOOM of a drum hit, but the soft droning paradiddle of a coming unplesant event.) And as of three minutes ago a random clicking has joined the symphony, a sibling snapping his tounge on a roadtrip, forever.

My body is not mine.

This morning I had two very unplesant experiences in the bathroom as my Crohn's Disease is restless and thought It'd say hello. Winching as I pushed, my bathroom was a maternity ward and even the gentle burgundy of my bathroom mat was not enough to calm the fire within me. I am used to my Crohn's getting pissed at me, but it never makes dealing with it any easier. And I'm out of Lysol.

My body is so unpredictable.

Sometimes I think it's all I can do to keep working out, rallying the labour union of muscle within me to fight against the tyrannical forces pulling at my flesh. I did not ask for them.

My body is a work-in-progress.

As is this blog entry....
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I think it's finally time to work...

I've finished chatting with Zac, finished reading reviews, finished mapping the spot for tonight, finished painfully using the bathroom twice, finished putting on (then taking off) my hoodie, finished turning the heat off which I am considering now turning back on, finished spinning my iPhone in my hand obsessively, finished looking through old pictures of that one car that was cut in half, finished touching but ultimetly not pleasuring myself, finished talking to my father, finished reading about Somali pirates, finished sleeping for just another couple of minutes, finished feeling sorry for myself, finished walking in and out of the living-room, finished shivering cause that heat's going the hell back on, finished listening to world-music, finished drinking the coffee from yesterday, finished cutting my nails to they con't click when I type, finished making my to-do list for today (which looks identical to my to-do list from yesterday), finished waiting for my coputer, finished waiting for life.

And now it's time to work.
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Undies. That last word always stands out to me.

I used this bin when I was moving across country, precariously stuffing all my possessions into whatever packing bins I could before beginning my ultimate cannonball run. I wrote the contents of each bin on the upper left-hand corner, and now that I use this as my hamper "undies" always stands out to me.

I often wonder why this one item always jumps off the plastic so. I suppose because it's such a vulnerable way to say underwear. "Underwear" implies the "undermost layer of my wearings". "Undies" implies "The undermost layer of my wearings that my mom still washes and folds for me". "Undies" implies "Don't forget your toothbrush and undies at Marcus's house again", if I was a child and leaving for a sleep-over and ever had a friend named Marcus. "Undies"is my inner 7-year-old getting ready for his big drive and that's just what my outer 26-year-old must have thought when he wrote it on this bin so long ago.

But I'm older now. I'm almost 30 and have a nice collection of underwear, most of which doesn't embarrass me when someone sees inside of them. Like most "Men" I have a nice big bed, carpets under my feet and "underwear" covering my vulnerable genitalia and if you asked me to show you my "undies" I wouldn't know where to point you.

But for the one moment where I open the dryer and smoosh my hot laundry against my face I know exactly where my undies are, I'm wearing them. For that one moment, blankets and towels warming my skin sucking me deep into my childhood, I'm on my way to Marcus's house and even though I still never had a friend named Marcus all the warmpth of a Mothers kiss radiates through my hot clean laundry. And into the bin underneath me it falls, and is capped, and on the hand-cart it looks up at me and reminds me that while I might be a man now, I'm always going to be wearing undies.

And that's just fine with both of us.

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I don't know what part of being proud of your gayness necessitates
dancing on a float in your underwear, but it sure seems to work for
them.
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Hey whomever put this up uhhhh, fuck you.
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They're obviously getting their stories from different friends.
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I can see one of your branches dying plant, and I'm sorry. For awhile I thought my matchstick splint would mend the spot where the branch folded, but now I see that it didn't and I'm sorry. Seemed poetic enough to work.

When my friend gave me to you cause he was maybe going to jail I took you home proudly, confident I'd give you a good home. "Put it outside" my friend suggested, and I did, suggesting he garden in jail, but the wind was too strong and your branches broke and I moved you inside.

So indoors I moved you, placing you with the other plants that almost died when I put them outside. (While they're not as majestic as you your struggle is similar and I thought you'd have something to talk about). And for awhile, it was good. I'd water you with the jug from Trader Joes and spray the branches you have left with the green water-bottle I store above my Voice Over booth, which is badass. You seemed to thrive in your little hovel and I began to think of the smile on my friend's face when I called him in jail and told him how well you were doing.

But then I woke up and another of your branches had broken in the night, folded over upon itself, much like it's previous owner. And determined to save this branch I made a makeshift splint out of two wooden matchsticks and some gaff tape. Hurriedly I applied the splint, sure to support the weight of the branch and wrap it strong, for support. With breath in my throat I waited and watched you closely. And incredibly, your leaves stayed green. Proudly I boasted of having saved you like Mr. Myagi in Krate Kid 3 if he was the boastful type, and life continued on.

But now I see I failed you again. Awaking to jackhammering I awoke to see the branch begin to die. Slowly I will watch it turn brown knowing that if another one dies so might you.

And after I killed the Wandering Jew my friend also gave me I can't let this happen. Especially since he might get out some time.

-Ben
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Ooh Im always interested when someone calls it "The curious case".